Tales from the Roadhouse
by The Disreputable Writer
Summary: Run by Ellen and her young daughter, Jo, the Roadhouse has always been a place for Hunters to get a beer and see old friends. Amongst their own kind, they tell the stories that they can't tell anywhere else. Pre-series, collection of OC one-shots.
1. Pluck it out, and cast it from thee

A/N: This series of fics takes place before the events of Supernatural. It uses Harvelle's Roadhouse as a framing device for one-shots within the Supernatural world. Each new chapter will feature a different original character. If the timeline makes sense, I might throw in references to canon characters, but for the most part the only ones you'll recognize are Ellen and Jo.

This fic is rated for language and violence generally. This chapter also contains mutilation and child abuse.

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><p>It had been a long time since the walls of Harvelle's Roadhouse were smooth. Dents, scratches, cracks, and even bullet holes marked every inch of wood. They were mementos from all the fights, accidents, and daily living that had taken place there over the years. On a hot, windy Nebraska day in 1998, Jo was busy putting new marks on the walls.<p>

Deliberately, almost lazily, she stood at the bar and flicked her knife into the wall near the door. There it stuck until Jo sauntered over and retrieved it, leaving a new slit in the center of the cluster she had already made.

It had been two years since Ellen Harvelle had chased John Winchester out her doors and, though the Harvelles didn't know it yet, it would be eight more years until his sons strolled in through them. In the meantime, there were plenty of other hunters who frequented the Roadhouse. Jo was accustomed to the background noise of clacking pool balls, clinking glass, sloshing booze, and gruff conversation that nearly always permeated the bar. It was home. Jo belonged there. After all, she was a Harvelle. Even if not many Hunters knew of her yet, most of them still remembered her father. And all of them knew her mother.

Ellen Harvelle stood behind the bar, sweaty wisps of hair clinging to her face. Some would have said that she looked tired, or distracted, or unthreateningly matronly. But Jo and the Roadhouse regulars knew better. There wasn't a thing that went on in Ellen's bar that she didn't know about, and she was equipped to handle almost anything that was likely to happen.

She also didn't miss Jo putting new holes in her wall, but with a full house she had other things to worry about than scolding her daughter.

Hunters had been entering and leaving the bar all day, and as they passed in or out Jo tried to make them jump by thumping her blade into the doorjamb by their heads. Most ignored her, some rolled their eyes, others gave her nods of recognition for her good aim, and one old codger turned and told her, "Real Hunters don't need to show off, kid." None of their reactions stopped her from continuing her game. It was either this or doing her homework.

She finally got a satisfactory reaction from a young man who ducked in out of the heat around midday. When the knife whizzed by his face, he jumped back with a started yelp. Jo was pleased with herself until she recognized him and saw what had happened to his face.

"Holy shit, Cam," she said, "What happened to you?"

Ellen stopped her work long enough to shout over, "You watch your language, Jo." Then she noticed what Jo had already seen, and added, "Oh, for fuck's sake, Cameron."

Cameron Isles was one of the youngest Hunters to frequent the Roadhouse. He claimed to be twenty-one, and Ellen sold him drinks even though she didn't believe him. Now he stood half inside the doorway, his tawny hair lit by the sun and his boyish face in shadow. His sheepish grin was lopsided due to a clumsily-placed bandage that covered his entire left eye. As he stepped inside, the interior lights let Jo get a better look at him. The bandage looked dirty and wet.

"Think you could patch me up, ladies?" he drawled.

Ellen was busy at the bar, so she slid a first aid kit to Jo with a nod. Jo took the kit and led Cameron to a secluded corner. She hoped that being out of earshot of curious onlookers would make him more likely to tell his story.

She didn't need to worry about that. Cameron was clearly itching to tell. He almost seemed pleased with himself when Jo gingerly removed the bandage to reveal an empty socket where his eye had been.

"It's gone?" Jo whispered, her hand going to her mouth, "What the hell did this?"

As Jo cleaned the wound as best she could and taped a fresh bandage to Cameron's face, he answered her question.

* * *

><p>I was working this job over in Wyoming, (said Cameron). Truth is, I thought it was a werewolf. I've always wanted to hunt a werewolf. A lot of the Hunters around here won't even give you the time of day unless you've got the basics under your belt – ghost, shifter, demon, vampire, werewolf… I didn't even have to kill it; I just wanted to be able to say that I'd tussled with one.<p>

Well, it wasn't a werewolf after all. I thought I was following a pretty good lead: young couple found dead in their home, sans hearts. Got werewolf written all over it, right? But no, I broke into the morgue and had a look at the bodies, and… Hey, don't give me that look. I've tried bluffing my way in with fake IDs, and breaking in just works better for me, okay? I guess I'm just a bad liar, or I look too young. They always ask to call my supervisor, and I can't find anyone who'll work phones for me.

Anyway, I broke in and saw the autopsy reports. Until the coroner cracked them, there wasn't a mark on the bodies. Their hearts were gone, sure, but not torn out. Something took their hearts right out of their chests without putting a single other thing out of place.

That shot my werewolf theory, but it was clearly a job, so I did some more digging. Turns out that couple had just moved into the house. The last person to live there had been a college kid renting one of the bedrooms. I tracked him down at his parents' house. He'd moved back in with them after… well, they called it "the accident." But I talked to the kid, and it wasn't any accident. He had been at school for music. He was gonna be a concert pianist. He showed me some tapes of him playing, too, and he was damn good as far as I could tell. But when I met him, both his hands were gone at the wrists. Just gone. Poor bastard.

His parents wanted me out of there, but he wanted to talk. I think he could tell that I'd believe his story. There's a lot to be said for that, for having people around who'll believe you when you tell them something crazy. It must be awful to be a civvie and have something like that happen to you. At least us Hunters can tell each other, you know? Who was he gonna tell, if I didn't come along?

So he took me to his room. Told his parents that he just wanted to show me those tapes of his playing, from before. But as soon as we were away from them, he told me. Told me how he had his friends had moved into that house when they all started college. How they had heard these noises, like shouting or crying. He said they could hear a voice like a little girl's, saying over and over again, "Pride is a sin."

He said that his friends started moving out until it was just two of them left – him and another music major, a girl, a singer. The fewer people there were in the house, the worse it got. It was like the voices were zeroing in on the ones who were left, focusing on them. They could barely sleep, and they were about to leave too when it happened. One night he heard screaming, but it was different than before. It was a real voice. So he jumped out of bed, ran to his friend's room, and found her… well, in a bad way. Her tongue was gone, and she was screaming and choking on blood. He got her to the hospital, and she lived, but she was never gonna sing again. She went back home to New York, which is why I didn't know about her.

So by this time, the piano-player boy was pretty much sure that he didn't want to stay in the house anymore. He went back in one more time to get his things, though, and that's when it got him. Maybe it sensed that it was about to lose its prey, I dunno. But when he went back inside to pack up, he went upstairs and suddenly he could see his own breath. He didn't know it, but he'd hit a cold spot. And sure enough, when he went into his old bedroom, that little girl whose voice he'd been hearing was waiting for him.

He said she was pretty, but really skinny. And her hair was blonde, but it was really short, like it had just started growing back after being shaved. And he said that he knew he should have been scared, but she was just so pitiful that he felt like he should talk to her.

She came over to him just as sweet as could be, and took his hands in hers. Then he said that she looked up at him and told him, "And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee."

He knew he was in trouble then, but it was too late. The girl disappeared and she took with her his hands. In just a split second, he was left with nothing but bleeding stumps.

He couldn't stop saying how stupid he was to have gone back inside, to have let her touch him. He knew he should have just left that house had never come back. And he got so worked up then that he started to cry and howl, and his parents came and kicked me out, and that was that.

At that point it was pretty obvious that I was dealing with a ghost, which meant I had to do some research. Damn, but I hate research. That's why I hardly ever go after ghosts. I prefer creatures that you can take down with a bullet. You've seen me shoot, right? Best shot out of anyone in this bar, even the old-timers have to admit that, even the ones who say I'm too young for this job. I'll bet I'd be damn good at hunting werewolves. I could make a name for myself that way, sniping them from up high. You don't need to do much research to hunt a werewolf. You just track it, pick your spot, and don't miss.

Anyway, research. Took me all night, but I found it. Decades ago, that same house was home to a widower and his daughter. The dad was a real religious man, and not the good kind. He wore his daughter down, little by little. No one knew what he was doing to her at first. She'd come to school bruised up, but she was a sporty kid and everyone figured she was getting those bruises from soccer, not from her dad. Then one day she came to school with her head shaved. Now, they had a picture of this girl in the paper from before her dad went crazy on her, and let me tell you that she had the most beautiful head of hair you ever saw on a child. Seems when her teachers asked her why she had cut her hair so short, she told them that her daddy had done it to keep her from being prideful.

A little while after that, she stopped going to school altogether. Her daddy locked her in the basement and then drank himself into a stupor. When the police came knocking at his door a week later, he was still drinking, and the girl had died of dehydration down there all alone.

Well, the dad went to jail, and the girl was buried at the local graveyard, and no one lived in that house until a bunch of college kids who were too young to remember her needed a place to stay.

Of course, if I were smart, I would have gone straight to the graveyard and burned her bones. But I guess I wanted to prove to myself that I could face her head-on. I didn't want to go on a hunt and never clap eyes on the thing I was hunting. So I went into that house thinking that it had taken weeks for the ghost to attack those college students, and days for it to attack that married couple. I figured it wouldn't try to hurt me if I just stepped in for a few hours.

Dumbest thing I ever did do.

Quick as could be, the door locked behind me and the whole place got icy cold. I knew I was in for it, but I went ahead anyway and looked for her. I guess I figured if I could put some rock salt in her, it would distract her long enough for me to make a break for it.

I found her in the kitchen. She looked just like her picture, only skinny and bald like the pianist kid had said. She didn't look angry or anything. She was just sad.

You know, in her own way, I think she was trying to help. She wasn't malicious or nothing. She didn't want to hurt people. But she had been raised all her life to think that pride would get you damned to Hell, and the only way to get rid of pride was to get rid of the things you were proud of. That young couple had just eloped; the thing they were proudest of was their love for each other. That singer was proud of her voice, and that pianist was proud of his playing. And as that little girl walked toward me, her hands held out like she was greeting me, I tried to think of what I was proud of. What she would try to take from me.

And you know what I thought of? I thought of your mother, and what she said to me last time I was in here. Do you remember? She said, "Cameron, you might be a lousy Hunter, but you sure can shoot. You've got the best eyes of anyone in here. Too bad you don't have the brains to go with them."

In the time I spent thinking it, she was on me. She put her hands right over my two eyes, and I just panicked. I had a sawed-off full of salt rounds in my belt, and in a flash I swung it up and fired. I couldn't see with her hands over my eyes, but I guess I hit her in her left shoulder because she spun that way just as she disappeared. And the way she spun, her left hand came off of my right eye, but her right hand stayed where it was. A second later I felt the pain and the blood pouring down, and I knew what she'd done.

I got out of there just as fast as I could. The door was open. I guess she figured that one eye was enough to keep me from sinning, so she let me go. Like I said, I don't think she really wanted to hurt anybody.

Her bones were easy enough to find, and easy enough to burn. Would have been the simplest job in the world if I hadn't gone and wasted time in that house. Now look at me. I mean… just look…

* * *

><p>For the first time since he had arrived, Cameron looked downright sorry for himself.<p>

"Oh, Cam," sighed Jo, "I'm so sorry." The bandage she had put on him looked better than the old one, but it wouldn't fix anything. He was still short an eye.

But Cameron wiped the frown off his face in a second, and beamed at Jo as best he could. "Aw, don't worry about me," he said, "This is probably the best thing that could have happened to me. Do you know what an eyepatch will do for my reputation around here? People won't look at me as just a kid who's in it for a laugh if I can say that I lost an eye on the job. Just promise you won't tell anyone else the whole story? I don't want the others to know what I dummy I was."

"I dunno, Cam," said Jo. But she kept an eye on him for the rest of the night, and his prediction seemed to be coming true. The old-timers gave him more respect than they ever had before. Getting wounded on the job seemed to be a rite of passage for them, and Cameron had passed it. Jo began to think that maybe Cam would be all right. After all, he wasn't the only Hunter who was missing something. In fact, she counted two other Hunters at the Roadhouse that afternoon who didn't have the full complement of fingers.

But later that night, when they were closing up the bar, Ellen shook her head ruefully. "That dumb kid," she said under her breath, "He won't last a week, and he's too stubborn to realize that he ought to give it up while he's still alive."

This startled Jo, because her mother was rarely wrong, and because Jo rather liked Cameron. "He might be okay," Jo said weakly.

"He might have been okay," Ellen corrected her, "If he had brains, or instincts, or discipline, or luck. But the truth is the only thing he had going for him was that he was a crack shot. Now I'll tell you what's going to happen. He'll go out on another hunt acting like he's got two good eyes, he'll do something stupid, and we won't ever see him back in here again."

And Ellen was right, but they didn't stop to mourn. There were more beers to serve, and more friends to worry about. They couldn't get attached to everyone who walked through their doors.


	2. And a helm, before ye fly

A/N: This series of fics takes place before the events of Supernatural. It uses Harvelle's Roadhouse as a framing device for one-shots within the Supernatural world. Each new chapter will feature a different original character. If the timeline makes sense, I might throw in references to canon characters, but for the most part the only ones you'll recognize are Ellen and Jo.

This fic is rated for language and violence.

* * *

><p>For one reason or another, there weren't nearly as many female hunters as male. Jo often wondered why that was. The popular theory was that women just weren't cut out for the life, but Jo rejected that out of hand. After all, she was as tough as any boy, and her mother was tougher than any Hunter she knew. If women were avoiding the profession, it wasn't because they were incapable of it.<p>

Jo preferred to think that there were lots of female Hunters out there who were just good at laying low and minding their own business. The network of Hunters that she was familiar with was so male-dominated; Jo was sure that if she hadn't been raised in it, she wouldn't have wanted to join it. For all that it provided contacts, allies, and backup when you needed it, the Hunter lifestyle was often a dick-measuring contest of epic proportions. There were the legends – everyone knew the names of Harvelle, Winchester, Elkins, and Singer. There were the ones who had fallen from grace – who had lost their edge or withdrawn from the community – like Rufus Turner. There were the younger men who had made a name for themselves; Gordon Walker was among their number. And then there were the kids just starting out, who didn't usually last long. They either backed out when things got too tough, or fought to their deaths like poor Cam Isles. In a hierarchy like that, where there were so many unwritten rules, so much bad blood and veiled history, and so much macho posturing, Jo didn't blame any woman who looked at it and decided to go her own way.

Jo knew of a few women who would help a Hunter if asked, but who played by their own rules, like Missouri and Barnes. But she had never met them, and precious few women ever walked through the doors of the Roadhouse.

That was why Jo was delighted to see Suzanne and Marietta Kingfisher duck in out of the wind on a slow Monday afternoon. The bar was quiet and almost empty, just the way Suzanne liked it.

Suzanne was a big woman with dark coloring and hard, humorless eyes. Jo had gleaned over the years that she was half-Cherokee, and had been raised on the reservation in North Carolina. Marietta was her daughter, and she looked almost like a miniature copy of her mother except that her black hair had notes of orange in it. Marietta had never called a reservation home; Suzanne had raised her on the road. Despite the hard upbringing, Marietta was generally friendlier than her mother, and she gave Ellen and Jo a smile and a nod as she followed Suzanne inside.

Ellen nodded back. "Hi Mary," she said, "Sue. What'll it be?"

"Whiskey, straight," said Suzanne as she sat down at the bar. She met Ellen's eyes for a second, and for the first time Jo got the strange feeling that they didn't like each other very much. She supposed that female Hunters were just as capable of having tangled histories and strained relationships as the men. "And a ginger ale for her," Suzanne added, indicating her daughter. Marietta sat beside her, keeping uncharacteristically silent.

While Ellen got their drinks, Jo slid up beside Marietta. They didn't see each other very often, but Jo had always been fascinated by the older girl. She was, perhaps, what Jo could have been if she had been allowed to hunt alongside her mother. Maybe if her father hadn't died…

"It's good to see you," said Jo shyly, "How long's it been? A year?"

She expected Marietta to strike up a conversation, but it was Suzanne who answered her. The older woman's voice had more warmth in it than Jo remembered. "More than that," she said, "We don't seem to make it out here much, though I like the place just fine. We happened to be working a job nearby." She smiled, and Jo's nervousness melted away. "I suppose you want to hear about it."

Jo nearly shouted, "Yeah!" at the same time that her mother returned with the drinks and chimed in, "Come on, Sue, don't go putting ideas in her head."

Suzanne drank half her whiskey in one gulp. "You think you can protect her from all this, even while you raise her here in the Roadhouse? Don't be naïve. Besides, hunting is in her blood."

Ellen bristled. "And I suppose dragging her out on hunts would be better parenting on my part?" she said, trying and failing to sound disinterested, "A mother ought to protect her kids better than that."

The expression on Suzanne's face reminded Jo of why she had always remembered her as being so intimidating. "Plenty of your customers are raising their kids on the job. Did you ever give Hart, Lee, or Winchester shit about the way they're bringing up their sons? Because I'm doing a hell of a better job than any of them."

"You bet I give them shit for it, and I'll do the same to you if I feel like it," said Ellen, "And don't you mention John Winchester to me. That's just low and you know it."

Jo spoke up in the hope of forestalling a serious fight, "Mom, I won't get any ideas. I just want to hear the story."

Ellen hesitated but, finding herself outnumbered and not wanting to come to blows with the much larger Suzanne, she spat, "Fine." She wandered farther down the bar, not looking pleased with the situation at all.

As Marietta sipped her soda in respectful silence, Suzanne told their story.

* * *

><p>A month ago, not far from here, a man went out into the woods (said Suzanne). When he returned, he had lost his wits. He was wild and violent, and he spoke nonsense. All anyone could get out of him was that he had encountered some sort of beast in the woods, and that he was greatly afraid for his life.<p>

I didn't think much of the story until I heard that the man had died exactly three days later. It wasn't that the creature had caught up with him – he just dropped dead as he was leaving the hospital. He had just been released. Remember this, Joanna: if you hear about someone who has seen an apparition, suddenly gone insane, and then dropped dead for no reason, look into it. You're probably dealing with a harbinger of death. Black Dogs, Radiant Boys, ghosts who have become Death Omens, that sort of thing. You've probably heard of them from the Hunters around here, though you probably don't know about the thing we ended up chasing.

By the time Marietta and I had gotten tickets and flown into Nebraska, there were two more victims. Both had come out of the forest, crazy and gibbering about a terrible beast just like the first man. One died just as we arrived, exactly three days after his brush with this mysterious creature. The other, if the pattern held, had one day left.

Her name was Erin. We found her in the psych ward of the hospital, where the other two victims had also been. The same doctor had treated all three, and she was nearly at her wit's end. She didn't know what to make of the cases, and I think she was glad to hand the matter over to me when I posed as a CDC inspector. I met Erin. She wasn't as crazy as everyone thought. Don't get me wrong; she wasn't at all right in the head. But she was much more understandable if you started from the assumption that she had seen a harbinger of death, which is what I did.

I knew right away that there was nothing I could do for her. It's very difficult to stop a person's death after they've already encountered a harbinger, and Erin only had a day left. There was just no time.

I wasn't there to help Erin. I just needed her story.

At that point my theory was that someone had harnessed a Black Dog and was setting it on people in the woods. Black Dogs usually strike once and then slink away, and if they're left alone they usually keep to themselves. My plan was to break whatever bond was holding the Dog in the woods out there, and let it run off somewhere less populated.

But you should never make assumptions before you have all the facts. I coaxed Erin into telling me about the creature she saw, and when she finally managed it she didn't describe a dog at all. She told me about a giant cat, the size of a lion, with the face of a brown-skinned woman.

You look confused, Joanna. Don't be embarrassed. Most Hunters, even the good ones, probably wouldn't recognize a description like that either. But I did. It's an old Cherokee legend, called an Ewah. You might have heard it called a Wampus Cat. They're very rare. This was only the second one I've ever hunted, and I'm as close as there is to an expert on them.

You're probably wondering where Marietta was during all this. She's still a bit young to start pulling off fake IDs, so she was waiting for me in the car. At least, she was supposed to. I left the hospital to find the car and my daughter missing. I don't expect you to understand what that felt like for me. Hunters do not make the best parents, not because we do not love our children, but because we love them too much. And we know what is out there, and what it can do to them. Suffice to say, any number of horrible possibilities came to mind before I realized that I had a text message waiting on my phone.

I still have it. Let me read it for you: "Going to the woods. I know it's a Black Dog, and I can handle it. I'm old enough for a solo hunt now, even though you don't think I am. Don't worry. I'm armed. Please don't be mad at me."

Isn't that a laugh? I was spitting mad before I had even finished reading it.

Since Marietta had taken my car, I had to convince the sheriff that there was some kind of neurotoxin in the forest that was making people go insane and die. I honestly can't remember exactly what I said or if it even sounded remotely plausible, but apparently my fake CDC badge was enough to convince him. He gave me a ride out to the woods so we could talk to the Forest Service men into blocking road access. Of course, it was too late to stop Marietta. I found the car parked near a trailhead. After making some excuse to the sheriff about why I was running off into the forest that I'd just told him was full of poison, not to mention why I had an arsenal in my back seat, I grabbed some gear and went looking for Marietta.

While I hiked into the trees, I tried to remember the legends about Ewah. I encountered my first one when I was a little girl. My daddy and I trapped it, and I never found out what exactly he did with it, so even though it was my second hunt I didn't really know how to fight this thing. It wasn't as if I had time to set another trap; my daughter was in danger.

Here's what I remembered from the legend. The first Ewah was a Cherokee woman who spied on the men of her tribe by disguising herself in the skin of a mountain lion. As punishment, she was merged with her costume, and made into a half-cat-half-human monster. Since then, she has roamed the hills and forests, and anyone who meets her is driven insane. I had also heard that if you heard her yowl, you would die within three days, but I hadn't been sure of that until seeing what happened to Erin and the other two.

The only lead I had on defeating an Ewah was another legend. In it, a man was driven insane by an Ewah, and his wife went out to avenge him. She stalked up behind the Ewah while wearing a mask, and she scared it so badly that it ran away and never returned. It sounded silly to me. It's good to go into a hunt knowing that iron or silver or holy water will hurt whatever it is you're hunting. When you go in blind, especially when your only strategy is to wear a mask and hope your prey is scared of you, it's more than a little nerve-wracking.

But it was all I had to go on, so I improvised. Under my blouse I was wearing a t-shirt with a wolf's head on it. It was one of those ridiculous faux-Indian looking designs that doesn't actually have anything to do with Native American culture, but when your job pays as poorly as hunting does you don't throw away clothes just because you don't like the picture on the front.

I tore the front out of the shirt so I had a piece of fabric with a wolf's face printed on it. Then I stretched the fabric over a piece of bark and tied the whole thing to my forehead with strips of cloth from the rest of the shirt. So by that time, I was down to my bra and jeans, with an ugly makeshift wolf-mask strapped to my head. All I could think about was the fact that if I died, I would make the most embarrassing corpse possible.

I had the mask pushed up so I could see underneath it, and that way I sneaked through the trees. I could read Marietta's trail plain and day from where she had left the car, so it was just a matter of finding her before the Ewah found either of us.

I didn't have to go all that far before I came across a sight that made my blood freeze.

In a clearing, Marietta was lying on her back, like she had fallen. Her eyes were closed, and there was a bruise on her forehead that was bleeding a little. She could have been dead already for all I knew. And there was a creature crouching over her as if it meant to tear out her throat. I almost cried out and ran in to save her when I realized that the creature wasn't attacking her. It was staring at her face.

It took all my willpower, but I stayed silent and watched. Just like Erin had said, the creature was a cat with the face of a woman. Her body was that of a mountain lion, and it was just slightly humanoid, as if she might be able to walk upright if she wanted. I could just see her face. It had been a long time, but I could see that she wasn't the same Ewah that I had trapped with my father. She was younger, and quite pretty.

She was still staring at Marietta. I was trying to figure out a way to approach it without letting it hurt her when it made a sort of sound. At first I was afraid that I had heard its call, and that I would die just like the others, but that wasn't the case. I'd heard mountain lions scream before, and it wasn't the same sound. It was loud, but calm, like it was speaking to someone.

Sure enough, someone answered. A mountain lion – a real one this time – emerged out of the bushes and approached Marietta and the Ewah. And in that moment I figured it out. The Ewah didn't mean to kill Marietta. I wanted to make her one of them. It had even called a mountain lion, which normally wouldn't come this far East, to merge with her. Once the notion came to me, it made sense. Of course the girl who became the first Ewah would want to make companions for herself. She was punished harshly, and doomed to be feared and lonely. And of course she would see much of herself in Marietta. A young woman of Cherokee blood, headstrong, bold, curious…

Even as these thoughts raced through my head, I was creeping closer and closer. I didn't care about killing the thing or completing the hunt. I just had to get it away from Marietta before it turned her. Luckily my daddy taught me to stalk just like a cat, and I was completely silent until I was close enough to reach out my hand and touch the thing.

And that's what I did. I put my hand on its shoulder just like I was greeting a friend. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I had figured that if it was scared of my stupid mask, then good, and if it wasn't, then I would be dead either way. So I grabbed its shoulder, spun it around, and ducked my head so my mask was pointed right at it.

It was gone so fast that I could have sworn that it dissolved into thin air. I didn't even feel its shoulder move from under my hand; I was just suddenly aware that it wasn't there anymore. I looked up just in time to see its tail disappearing into the bushes, and in a matter of seconds I couldn't even heard it anymore. The real mountain lion looked almost shocked, as if it didn't quite know where it was, but it soon ran away too. Good thing. It would have been truly pathetic to have chased off an Ewah only to be killed by an ordinary cougar.

My heart was still pounding when I knelt to check on Marietta. After all, everyone else who had seen the Ewah had ended up in a psych ward. It would have broken my heart if she were left with anything less than her own brilliant mind. I shook her gently and called her name.

And to my relief, she opened her eyes. As soon as she spoke, I could tell that she was going to be alright. Her voice was muddled and confused, but perfectly sane, when she said, "Mom, that wasn't any Black Dog!"

* * *

><p>"Marietta spent a few days in a hotel room nursing a concussion," Suzanne said as her story drew to a close, "I kept an eye on the news, but no new cases of insanity or unexplainable death cropped up. I guess the Ewah moved on. It's a pity I couldn't stop it once and for all, but under the circumstances I'm just glad we got out of it each in one piece."<p>

Jo listened, rapt, in case there was any more to the story. But Suzanne was finished. The only sound for several seconds was Marietta sucking the last drops of her soda through her straw. Now Jo understood why she had been so uncommonly quiet. She was embarrassed because she had screwed up the hunt. Not to mention the unholy scolding Jo was sure she had gotten from her mother.

When Marietta finally did speak, her voice was softer and more pensive than Jo remembered. "I've got a lot to learn," she said, "If that's all you learn from this, Jo, then that's enough. Don't rush in half-cocked. And listen to your mother." Suzanne nodded approvingly.

"Time for us to go," said Suzanne. They hadn't talked to anyone else in the bar, and they had only had one drink each, which made Jo wonder if they hadn't stopped by just to see her. After all, everyone knew how much Jo loved hearing hunting stories.

As Suzanne stood to leave, she added, "Ellen. I'm sorry I tried to lecture you about Joanna. We're both trying to do the best we can for our daughters. I understand that. And you're doing good by her. She's a good kid."

Ellen had been washing glasses furiously throughout the story, but at Suzanne's words her posture softened a little. She gave Suzanne a curt nod. "Damn right she is," Ellen said. Then, as if holding out a peace offering, she said, "Try to come visit us more than once every other year, would you?"

Suzanne gave a tiny smile as she left, Marietta in tow.

Jo stayed silent for a respectable several minutes before saying, "That's pretty cool, isn't it? A mother-daughter hunting team? I'll bet we'd make a good team." She glanced at her mother hopefully. It wasn't the first time she had brought it up, but she always hoped the answer would be different this time. After all, Jo was thirteen now – more than old enough to start training as a Hunter.

Ellen stared at her daughter, an unreadable expression on her face. "Go do your homework," she said.


	3. Addio dolce svegliare alla mattina!

A/N: This series of fics takes place before the events of Supernatural. It uses Harvelle's Roadhouse as a framing device for one-shots within the Supernatural world. Each new chapter will feature a different original character. If the timeline makes sense, I might throw in references to canon characters, but for the most part the only ones you'll recognize are Ellen and Jo.

This fic is rated for language and violence.

8/24: edited to put lines between scene breaks

* * *

><p>On busy nights, when Ellen couldn't run the whole bar by herself, she enlisted Jo's help. She never let her daughter touch the hard liquor, but Jo refilled water glasses and peanut bowls, and occasionally delivered a beer to a table.<p>

Jo liked nights like this. They were perfect chances to talk to the regulars.

"Jo, bring this to your Uncle Collin, would you?" said Ellen, handing Jo a pint. Jo wrapped both hands around the glass and carried it carefully to a table near the billiards, careful not to spill even a lick of foam.

Jo's "Uncle Collin" wasn't really her uncle. That was just the title she put on all the regulars at the Roadhouse. It had started out when she was tiny, and her father had introduced her to his hunting buddies. Those men were like brothers to him, and it was only natural for her to call them family. The convention soon carried over to any distinguished Hunter who Jo met more than twice. She imagined that half the big-league Hunters in the country had been called "Uncle" by her at one point or another.

Collin was sitting with three others, all of them big men in their late thirties. He smiled through his thick beard as Jo approached with the drink. "Thanks, kid," he said, reaching for it.

Jo held it just out of his reach, a playful smirk on her face. "Trade you for a story," she offered.

All four men chuckled out loud at her spunk. "Fine," said Collin, "Which one do you want to hear? I hunted a shifter last month; that's a good one."

Jo shook her head. "Tell me how you became a Hunter," she demanded. It had never occurred to her to ask that of anyone before, but recently she had become curious. She had known all her life that the things that go bump in the night were not always imaginary. But how did normal people find out about such things? How did they react? And how did they decide, instead of running away, to go hunting?

As soon as she said it, the silence at the table told her that she had said something wrong.

Collin's eyebrows furrowed as he said, "You're old enough, Jo. You should know better than to ask about that." Jo was so startled by the sudden change in tone that she didn't protest when Collin reached out and took the beer from her hands.

Jo was about to wander forlornly back to the bar when a voice called out to her, "Hey, Harvelle. I'll tell you my story if you like."

Jo turned to see Archibald Fauntleroy sitting alone in a corner. Despite his impressive name, he had always resembled, according to Ellen, a vagrant jackrabbit. Jo couldn't disagree. Archibald was long, lean, and very gray. It seemed to Jo that most of his body was covered in a layer of gray fuzz. He was also dirty. His jeans, wool shirt, and thick leather vest all looked like they hadn't been washed in months, and he smelled like vinegar and gasoline. He always called Jo "Harvelle." He called Ellen the same thing, just as he had called Jo's father back when they used to run together.

"No thanks, Uncle Archie," Jo replied, "I already know your story. You grew up in the life, same as me."

Archibald nodded slowly, and then said, "You don't know all of my story. Tell you what…" His eyes flicked down to his empty pint glass, and then to the bar where Ellen was running herself ragged trying to keep up with all the orders. "You bring me a glass of your mom's top-shelf gin, and I'll make it worth your while."

The promise of a story was almost as welcome as an excuse to get into trouble. Jo crept behind the bar as if she were getting more peanuts and waited until Ellen was distracted with a particularly rowdy customer. As soon as she was sure no eyes were on her, she sloshed some gin into a glass and scooted back out onto the floor.

"Nicely done, Harvelle," Archibald chuckled as he took the glass from Jo and slid the chair next to him out for her, "Now listen up, cuz I'm about to tell you everything you need to know about the way people get into the business of hunting."

* * *

><p>Everybody's got a story of how they got into hunting (said Archibald), and everybody knows that it's not something you just ask about. Someone might tell you on his own, if he likes you and trusts you, but you don't ask. You just don't.<p>

Have you figured out yet why not? Think of all the stories you've ever heard from codgers like me around this here bar. How do they always start? With someone killed, or maimed, or driven crazy. That's our first lead. Happens all the time, right? And we try to save them, and sometimes we manage it, but sometimes bad things just happen to people who don't deserve it and that's the way it is.

Now think of all those people and all the people who know them. Most of them are going to explain away in their heads what it was that attacked them in the woods that one time, or why their parents got their hearts cut out, or who that black-eyed man was who killed their son. But some of them. Some of them.

They start digging, and they find out that whatever happened to them and theirs was nothing but a footnote in a war that's been going on since before their grandparents were born. And once you know, you can't un-know it. You can't go back. Believe me, I've tried.

That's why Hunters don't talk about how they came to be what they are. Because usually, that story is the most painful one they've got. The very lowest point in their lives. It'd be like a stranger coming up to you and asking you how you felt when your daddy got killed. Now, I'm not trying to upset you. I just want you to understand why old Collin was so sharp with you when you asked him just then. It wasn't you, Harvelle. It was just the way you said it, like it was no big deal.

But you and me, we're different. We've always known what's out there.

I was five when my dad gave me "the talk." Not the one about sex; that came later. I mean the one where he explained that our family had been hunting monsters for generations, and it was time I learned about it. After that, he expected me to do my homework with enough time left over to read through our relatives' old journals and learn from their hunts.

He was about as good a father as a Hunter can be. He wasn't overbearing, and he didn't try to scare me out of misbehaving. He even let me go out for sports and date girls. When I dropped out of high school, it was my own decision. Heck, he bawled me out for it, but I was done with school. I wanted to hunt.

I was damn good at it, too. I think a lot of people looked at me as proof that you could be raised a Hunter without growing up fucked in the head. I did my job and I had my shit together. My dad was really proud of that, I think. He was prouder that I was happy than that I was skilled. That's what made him a good dad.

He died when I was twenty-four, and everything changed. I had been hunting on my own for quite some time by then, so it shouldn't have mattered that much, but it did. He wasn't even fifty when he died. I started thinking about what I was doing with my life, and if there was anything I'd rather be doing. I'm sure every Hunter goes through that at some point. And at some point they get over it and get back to work.

But not me. Because just at that right time, I met her. Karen Kim. I used to say that the only reason I fell for her was because she caught me when I was weak, but hell, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I would have fallen for her no matter what.

I met her between jobs, when I was spending some time in Indianapolis. She used to eat at the same diner that I did. She really stood out. We were all a bunch of lowlifes, and she was a paralegal in a nice suit and pearls. Way out of our league. I left her alone, until one day I screwed up my courage and asked her why she always came in there, when she could afford nicer places where the men didn't drool all over her.

She said later that she liked me right away. She said it was because she could tell I wasn't a lech like the others, that I was honestly curious about her, but I think it was my face that won her over. You wouldn't guess it now, but I was a looker back then.

Well, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "One thing to be said about this place: I'm sure I'll never run into any of the assholes I work with."

"Fair enough," I told her, "But we have our own assholes here." I pointed to the men behind us, who were still stealing glances at her and whispering.

"They don't scare me," she said, "And at least they can't accuse me of not smiling enough when they promote some trust fund kid over me." Promotions. What a problem to have. No promotions for a Hunter, huh Harvelle? No benefits, no retirement. I wanted to laugh at her for complaining when she had everything compared to me. But there was something about the way she said it. She wasn't complaining because she wanted pity. She was just speaking her mind, because she was angry. Reminded me of the women I'd hunted with.

I asked her for her number. "No," she said, "Give me yours." I told her I didn't own a telephone. I didn't tell her that that was because it had fallen into a pond while I was running from a demon a week ago. She laughed and wrote down her digits, and I called her from a pay phone the next day to set up a date.

I will never know what she saw in me, but she kept saying yes when I asked her out. Eventually I felt like I ought to make myself better for her. She was going places, and I was a hick in overalls with ten dollars to my name. So I got a job that wasn't hunting. It was construction at first, then office work. Always part-time, always just enough so that I'd be able to take her out to dinner once in a while and wear clothes that didn't stink.

Then I got promoted, and we moved in together, and suddenly I realized that I wasn't a Hunter anymore and hadn't been for a long time. I hadn't gone on a job in months. All my hunting buddies had stopped calling me, because they knew I'd say I was busy. I was working full-time then, and I'd been dating this amazing woman for over a year.

It hit me all at once as I was moving into her place. I had done what everyone said was impossible. I had gotten out.

About a year and a half in, Karen asked if I was planning on popping the question to her. It caught me a little off guard, but after I thought about it a while I realized that it was exactly what I wanted to do.

So I sat her down and said, "Karen, you've changed my life in more ways than you know, and I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But first there are some things about me that you need to know."

And I told her everything. And when she didn't believe me, like I knew she wouldn't, I took her along on one last hunt. A ghost. Nice and easy. For me it was, anyway. Karen had a harder time of it.

After that, she spent a week at her sister's place. Had to sort through some stuff for herself, I imagine. But she came back, and she said, "Archie, I don't know how much of this is real and how much of it is us both being crazy. But I do know this. I can't handle a world where ghosts and vampires and such exist. I like my world, and I like the life I've made in it. If those things exist, then fine. Good to know. But I'm not going to go seeking them out."

Then she sighed and said, "And I also know that I love you, and if you're serious about leaving that life behind, then okay. I'll marry you."

I was so happy that I scooped her up in my arms and promised her that I'd never go hunting and I'd never bring that stuff into our lives again. And I kept my promise for four years.

I'm gonna skip over those four years, even though there are tons of good stories in there, because they wouldn't be of any interest to you. All you need to know about them is that we were happy.

You get into a routine when you live in the real world. Every day becomes predictable in a comfortable sort of way, and it throws you for a loop when even one thing is out of place. I guess that's what they mean by "losing your edge." Well I had lost mine, because when I came home one day and found bloodstains on the carpet in the front entryway, I just stood there like an idiot for I-don't-know-how-long. If I had been on a hunt, I would have been dead.

I followed the trail of bloodstains, and I was so dizzy at the sight of them that you'd think I'd never seen blood before. I followed them into the kitchen. And you know what I found there, don't you?

There wasn't a mark on her. She just lay there kind of stiff, with her eyes wide open and her face looking kind of angry and kind of scared. She had a knife in her hand, and it was bloody all the way up to the handle.

I can see in your eyes that you're thinking the same thing I was while I watched the police tape off our house and take away her body. What got her? She stabbed it, and it bled, so not a ghost. But it killed her clean, so not a werewolf. I'll give you a hint. When they autopsied her, bruises had sprung up on her neck. So she was strangled. What are you thinking now? A shifter? Closer, but no.

It was a man. Just a man. They found his fingerprints on our door. I snuck into an office while I was waiting at the precinct and I hacked their files. He was a real hard-luck case. Repeat offender. Burglaries and such. But not much violent crime. I pieced it together. He had broken in to our house, thinking no one was home. Karen had gone to the kitchen and gotten a knife. Ambushed him there. Stabbed him. And instead of running, he knocked her down and squeezed the life out of her.

I had to kill him. It was all I could think about: that somehow if I killed him, then things would be right. I knew it wouldn't bring Karen back, but I clung to it. Everything had to have a proper response.

See a ghost? Burn the bones.

Meet a vampire? Cut off his head.

A man kills your wife? You end the son of a bitch.

But I didn't even get that satisfaction. The police found him the next day, curled up behind a dumpster, dead as a doornail. He had bled out. Stabbed in the gut. Even if he had made it to a hospital, they probably couldn't have saved him. God damn him. When he killed Karen, he was already a dead man.

Nothing made sense anymore. I had done everything right. I had turned my life around, lived honestly, hadn't gone looking for trouble. I was normal. I was out.

But out don't mean safe. Normal don't mean perfect. There's still evil in the world even without the demons and monsters; it's just harder to fight because there's rules, and the monsters look like you.

This life may have its problems, but there's some kind of cold comfort in it. At least there's a mission, an enemy to fight, instead of just an empty place where someone you loved used to be. I called up your daddy. First time he'd heard my voice in five years, but he knew me right away. I lived with you and your parents for a few months while I straightened myself out – you wouldn't remember that, you were so small – and then I went back to hunting. Maybe this life has been more painful than it would have been to stay in Indianapolis, grieve like a normal person, and keep on living. But let me tell you, it's given me a lot of satisfaction over the years to imagine that murdering bastard's face on everything I've killed since. A lot of satisfaction.

I'm glad my daddy didn't live to see the way I turned out. I'm as fucked up as the rest of them now.

* * *

><p>Jo didn't know what to say, so she sat in uncomfortable silence while Archibald toyed with his empty glass. He must have been feeling awkward too after sharing such a raw memory, because he stood up without a word and went to pay his tab.<p>

"You giving Jo nightmares again, Archie?" asked Ellen as she rang him up.

"No monsters in this story," Archibald assured her.

Ellen scowled. "There are monsters in all your stories. Every last one." She handed him a bill.

"This is too much," Archibald protested, "I only had three beers."

"I'm charging you for the gin my daughter stole for you," said Ellen without anger, but with a little bit of smugness. Archibald paid sheepishly and left.

Jo tried to slip by the bar with a quiet, "I'm gonna do my homework, mom," but Ellen stopped her.

Ellen ignored her customers for a moment to say, "I know what Uncle Archie was telling you about, and I just want to make sure you know that the real world isn't always like that. I've lived in both, so I know. Archie got really unlucky, but for most people it's better not to be a Hunter, if you can manage it. And I'm working really hard to make sure you manage it."

Jo nodded like she understood, but by the time she made it to her room she had made up her mind. She liked her world better than the one normal people lived in. Even with all the risk, and despite what her mother said, she felt safer there. Because there would always be danger, whether it was a demon or a housebreaker, and Jo preferred to be ready when it came.

She wouldn't leave even if her safety were assured. After all, all these Hunters, these Uncles… they were Jo's family. And you stick with your family.


	4. Unconscious of her fantastic power

This series of fics takes place before the events of Supernatural. It uses Harvelle's Roadhouse as a framing device for one-shots within the Supernatural world. Each new chapter will feature a different original character. If the timeline makes sense, I might throw in references to canon characters, but for the most part the only ones you'll recognize are Ellen and Jo.

This fic is rated for language and violence generally. This chapter also contains stalking, emotional abuse, and attempted murder.

* * *

><p>"Do you know what a succubus is, Jo?"<p>

The tone of George Wallberg's voice told Jo that whatever a succubus was, she wasn't supposed to know about it. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure her mother wasn't listening in, she shifted her chair closer to George and answered, "Uh-uh."

George grinned a mischievous grin. He was not a regular at the Roadhouse; he had been referred there by a friend, or so he said, and he seemed to like the place just fine. He had wandered in at noon, and by the time he began luring Jo with stories of succubi it was nearly nine at night. He hadn't stopped ordering drinks during all that time. He had paced himself, so he wasn't falling down and sloppy, but he was definitely slurring his words and he smelled strongly of Ellen's well vodka.

Something about the way he held himself and the way his eyes shifted every which way made Jo uncomfortable, but her curiosity had been piqued.

"Well now," he said in a satisfied tone, "That's something every young Hunter oughta know. Especially cute girls."

"Why girls especially?" Jo asked quickly, "You think I can't handle a succubus?" She still didn't know what a succubus was, but she felt obligated to defend her sex against any implication of weakness. She had heard from too many Hunters that she was too young, too cute, or too female to do the job they did. She was determined to prove them wrong.

George chuckled. "Don't get your panties in a bunch," he said, "I'm just saying that you gotta look out for yourself. Wouldn't want you getting knocked up with some little demon-spawn, right? I don't know what your plans are, but I'm pretty sure that'd throw a wrench in them."

Now Jo was really interested, and she was absolutely sure that her mother wouldn't want her talking to this man. She scooted closer, ignoring her repulsion and the niggling sense of danger. "A monster that gets people pregnant?" she prompted.

"That's right," said George, "Here's how it works. A succubus finds its first victim – a man – and comes to him at night. She can see right into his mind. She takes his deepest, dearest desire, and she becomes it. Maybe that's his neighbor, or the chick in the porno he watched last night, or maybe it's the woman he's created in his own imagination, who is so perfect that no real woman can ever compare. In any case, when she appears to him, he can't resist her. You know what I mean, right?"

Jo knew what he meant. One didn't reach the age of thirteen while living in a bar without getting one hell of a sex education. Some of it wasn't true, and the vast majority was inappropriate for a girl her age, but Jo heard it one way or another. "Of course I do," she said, trying to sound more mature than she looked.

"Then you know what I mean when I say that she takes his seed," said George, "She steals it away and she pulls the same trick again, this time with a woman. She becomes a he – that's what you'd call an incubus. You follow? And the incubus comes to the woman in whatever form he knows that she can't say 'no' to, and he has his way with her."

Something about that scenario didn't sit well with Jo. "Isn't that…" she ventured, "Um… rape?"

George snorted and took another swig of vodka. "It can't be rape if she enjoys it."

That didn't sound right to Jo at all. Years ago, when Ellen had realized what a thorough sexual education Jo was gaining from her patrons, she had tried to teach her daughter the essentials herself. Depending on the topic, she had had varying degrees of success. But there was one point on which she had been very clear. "If anyone ever has sex with you," Ellen had told Jo, "And you didn't give him permission, or he threatened or tricked you into giving him permission, that's rape. It doesn't matter what else happened. There's nothing you can possibly say, wear, or do to make it okay for someone to do that to you. So if, God forbid, that ever happens…"

Jo had interrupted her mother with a roll of her eyes, embarrassed by the subject and eager to end the talk, "Yeah, yeah. I go to the police."

"No," Ellen had snapped, "The police probably won't do shit. You come to me, and I'll sort things out." The glance Ellen had given to the underside of the bar, where she kept her shotgun, told Jo exactly what kind of sorting her mother had planned for anyone who dared to violate her.

Jo wanted to explain this to George, but he was already continuing the story. "So if a succubus – or an incubus if you're a girl – picks you, you get the best sex of your life. But there's a price to pay. A succubus will suck the life out of a man along with his seed. Some die. Others just go into a coma. And an incubus will use a man's cum to knock up a woman with a monster. She births the thing, and then finds out the hard way that it's not a normal kid."

"What about gay people?" Jo asked.

George had been on his way to his next point when the question threw him off. "Huh?" he said.

"What if a succubus picks a man," Jo elaborated, "But he only likes other men? Then does she turn into an incubus? Or does she leave him alone? And what about lesbians? An incubus can't get them pregnant, because they don't want men."

"I…" George looked a little dumbfounded, but he quickly found his way back to his original train of thought. "That doesn't matter. This story is about one of those kids. You wanna hear the story?"

Jo nodded.

"Then quit asking questions," George huffed, and he began.

* * *

><p>When a succubus steals a man's seed, and an incubus uses it to get a human pregnant, the child that results is called a cambion (said George). Those little suckers are a bitch to track down, because they seem normal when they're born, and their mothers sure aren't going to admit that they were knocked up by a wet dream. So the moms make up stories about an ex-boyfriend or a one-night-stand, or they try to pass the kid off as their husband's. If the kid doesn't do something to get itself noticed, they can live their whole lives off a Hunter's radar. And most of them are sneaky enough to do just that.<p>

A couple of years ago, I got real lucky. I stumbled across the mother of a cambion, and she wasn't bothering to hide a damn thing. In fact, she had the whole story up on this website for people who claim that they've spoken to God or some shit. Her name was Virginia Vasquez. She told anyone who'd listen that an angel had visited her in her sleep, fucked her, and left her pregnant. She was convinced that her daughter was a little half-angel miracle child.

Only I knew that she was a monster.

I lurked around that website for a few weeks, and soon Virginia had dropped enough hints about her life that I was able to figure out the town in California where she lived. One cross-country drive later, I was parked outside her daughter's middle school.

The cambion's name was Amya. I recognized her as soon as she came out of the school doors. Two days before, her mother had been online talking about the yellow dress with a lion on the front that she had gotten for the kid, and sure enough Amya was wearing it. I watched her mill around on the sidewalk with her friends. She was at that awkward stage that a lot of girls go through – tall, chubby, glasses, braces. Like a normal kid. You'd never guess that there was anything wrong with her.

I followed her home. She never even realized that there was a car tailing her the whole way.

Then came the hard part. You see, I was almost positive that Amya was a cambion at this point, but I didn't have any proof. I couldn't just off the kid without knowing for sure. So I had to find a way to get close to her and Virginia. I watched them for weeks, and I kept reading what Virginia wrote on that website. Soon I found my "in."

You see, what Virginia wanted more than anything was for the church to recognize Amya's conception as a genuine miracle. All I had to do then was shower, shave, and bust out the priest disguise. I told Virginia that I was there to investigate her claim. She ate it right up.

I asked her a lot of questions about her visit from the incubus. She still believed it had been an angel, of course, but everything she said convinced me that I was right. Especially when she said that he had looked exactly like Johnny Depp.

Then she introduced me to Amya, and I got to meet the thing face-to-face for the first time. There isn't very much literature on what exactly cambions are capable of. I was a little nervous that she'd sense what I was really after. But no, she was young enough that she hadn't learned to be suspicious. It made her an easy target.

I spent a lot of time with Amya over the next few months. I kept telling Virginia that it was all so I could verify that her daughter was a genuine miracle-kid, and she kept buying it. I think Amya knew the whole thing was kind of weird, but I worked hard to gain her trust. Pretty soon she got used to me coming over every day after school. She'd tell me about her classes, her friends, boys she had crushes on, that kind of thing. It was boring as hell, but I had to act like her best friend so I could keep seeing her. After a while I was starting to think that the whole thing was a bust, and that I had been wasting my time, when it all paid off all at once.

Virginia had gotten so used to me being around that she would ask me to come over when she had to work late at the grocery store, so Amya wouldn't be alone. I was hanging out with Amya on just such a night when she dropped a bomb on me.

"Mom thinks I'm an angel," she said while she was boiling water for macaroni and cheese, "That's why you're here, right? You guys don't talk about it, but I figure that's the only a reason a priest would suddenly show up and become my babysitter."

"That's right," I told her, "What do you think? Are you an angel?"

She rolled her eyes. "Mom likes to see the good side of everything," she said. Then her face got really serious, which is just precious when a thirteen-year-old does it. No offence. And she said, "I'm not an angel; I'm a witch."

I was jumping out of my skin by that time, but I managed to keep calm. "Why do you say that?" I asked her.

She said, "I can do stuff. When it started, I couldn't really control it, but now I've got it pretty much figured out. Watch." She stopped stirring the noodles, but the spoon kept going on its own. Then, while I was still trying to catch my breath, the pot of boiling water flew over to the sink and emptied itself into the colander. I watched while Amya finished making her macaroni, and she never moved or touched a thing the entire time. She didn't even break a sweat.

"That's not all I can do," she said. She was babbling now. She had probably kept this secret for so long that she was dying to tell it. "I can control peoples' minds. Ever since I can remember, every boy that I liked also ended up liking me. That's not normal. I mean, I'm not that pretty. So this last time I put it to the test. Remember I told you that Alvin asked me out? Well, last week I decided to try to make him break up with me. The next day, he told me that it wasn't working out. The day after that I tried to change his mind back, and he was apologizing by lunchtime." She sat by me and started eating her macaroni. "An angel wouldn't do that, right? Mess with peoples' minds? Angels are supposed to help people. My powers only help myself. What do you think, father?"

It was unbelievable. A demon was asking for my advice, as a member of the clergy. I couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, Amya," I said, "You're not an angel or a witch." She almost looked hopeful before I added, "You're a monster. A freak. I've seen dozens like you. Well, I suppose none were quite like you. You're special. My first cambion. Man, I can't believe I wasted all these months watching you, working my way into your life, waiting for you to trust me enough to tell me. What a bore. I should have just trusted my instincts and… well…"

There was a knife rack on the kitchen counter. I hadn't been able to find anything on how to kill a cambion, but I figured that beheading works for most things. Amya looked like she had finally figured out that confiding in me had been a mistake, but she didn't have anywhere to go.

I would have had her right then if Virginia hadn't chosen that moment to come home.

I hadn't even reached for a knife yet, but Virginia only needed to look at her daughter's face to know that something was wrong. She stood in the doorway for about a second and a half before her face, which had always been so trusting, shut down. Closed up like a wall. I knew in a second that I would never get her to trust me again.

"I think you should leave," she said, and, like an idiot, I left. I could have overpowered them both and finished the job, but I figured that I had plenty of time. I could snatch the girl at school, walking home, at a friend's house, anywhere. So I left without a fight.

I staked out Amya's school for the next week, but she didn't show. Whenever I went to their house, Virginia's brothers were there, and that was trouble I just didn't need. I thought that if I was patient, eventually they would let their guard down. But I was wrong. A couple of weeks later I drove by the house and they were gone. I guess Amya was sneakier than I gave her credit for, because she had convinced Virginia to move them to a new state and leave no forwarding address. The trail was cold.

There's a good tip for a young Hunter: never underestimate your prey.

Here's another one: never give up on a hunt. You never know when you might catch a break.

It was over a year later when I finally figured out where they had gone. I found them down in Texas, and this time I didn't bother pussyfooting around. I went in for the kill.

I'm surprised more people don't get killed in their beds. It's so easy to slide a window open in the dead of night, creep in with a knife, and be out and away before anyone even knows what's happening. There was just one problem that I didn't expect.

When I crawled through the window, the lights snapped on, and there was little Amya waiting for me. She wasn't so little anymore. The braces and glasses were gone, and she wore her body like she was comfortable in it in a way that she hadn't been at thirteen. She stared me down. She wasn't a baby monster anymore; I had let her grow into a full-fledged freak.

"I felt you coming," she said while I tried to think of what to do, "Days ago. Blind hatred is easy to trace." She paced around the room while she spoke. Sometimes she even turned her back to me, but I had the feeling that she could see me even when she wasn't looking at me. "It took me a long time to understand why you hate me so much. It was actually pretty recently that I figured out that it's because you're just a hateful person. I thought there was something wrong with me, when you were the real monster the whole time."

She looked me up and down. The knife in my hand rolled up on itself like it was made of rubber, and I heard the handgun that I had brought as backup disassembling itself in its holster. The pieces fell to the ground.

"Mom knows what I am now," said Amya, "What I really am. And she knows what you are. We'll be moving again, starting tomorrow, and you won't be following us anymore. You know why? Two reasons. One, because I'm powerful, and you're scared of me. Two, and not that I think you care, but leaving me alone is the right thing to do. I'm not hurting anyone. Since I left California I've only ever used my powers in self defense. I might be a freak, but I'm not evil. I just want to live my life."

"I've heard that before," I said, "From vampires, werewolves, shifters, even demons. Some of them meant it, and some of them were lying. But they all ended up killing people, and I aim to prevent that." I didn't have my weapons, so I went at her with my bare hands.

She almost looked bored with me when she said, "Go to sleep."

I woke up two days later in a motel room. Amya and Virginia were already gone.

It's been six months since then, but I finally tracked them down again. This time they're in Mapleton, Iowa. In fact, that's where I'm headed now. One more road trip, one more hunt. This time I'm prepared. This time the little bitch won't know what hit her.

* * *

><p>Jo had listened to the story, becoming more and more uncomfortable by the minute but not knowing how to extricate herself. George was looking at her as if he expected her to say something. She was trying to think of how best to excuse herself when a voice came from behind her.<p>

"Okay, Mr. Wallberg," it said, "It's time for you to quit leering at my daughter and fuck off."

Jo turned to see Ellen leaning against a nearby table, just close enough to have heard everything and just far enough away that she and George hadn't noticed her. Ellen was wearing an expression that Jo had come to associate with the kicking of serious ass. Jo stood and shuffled behind her mother, trying to get out of the blast zone of Ellen's rage as much as she was trying to get away from George Wallberg.

George clearly had no idea who he was messing with. He smiled as he said, "I was just talking to her. Don't be so uptight."

"Did you not hear me?" said Ellen, "I'm kicking you out." By this time, every face in the Roadhouse was turned toward Ellen and George.

"If you want me gone," said George, pausing to take a leisurely sip of his drink, "Then make me leave."

Ellen smiled almost sweetly as she called over her shoulder, toward the bar where Archibald Fauntleroy was sitting, "Archie, sweetie? Could you see about getting ahold of the local police in Mapleton, Iowa, and telling them that there's a man by the name of George Wallberg who's been heard making threats on the life of a teenage girl? He's also been stalking her through three states. And he probably has priors."

Archibald grinned as he replied, "Sure thing, Harvelle."

"You bitch," George growled, turning purple with anger. He leaped to his feet, and his hand went inside his coat as if he were reaching for a weapon.

There were eight Hunters in the Roadhouse, not counting George, Ellen, and Jo. Before George could pull whatever weapon he was reaching for, he had eight firearms leveled at his head.

"God knows that Hunters get up to a lot of ugly business," Ellen said with the confidence of a woman with eight allies at her back and a shotgun within reach, "Sometimes the lines get blurred. But you crossed the line big time, and you should have had the sense not to brag about it in a place like this."

Jo swelled with pride. Her home was "a place like this," a place where Hunters held each other to a higher standard. Her pride only grew as she watched George Wallberg leave, humiliation and impotent rage all over his face.

There were no standardized rules for Hunting, and no official punishments for Hunters who went off the deep end. The closest they had were places like the Roadhouse, where Ellen Harvelle upheld a certain code of conduct.


End file.
